Lord of the Rings: The People of the Rising Sun
by Shi no Okikami
Summary: When Rohan calls for help, will the Easterling's be able to redeem themselves to the rest of Middle Earth? Rated R doesn't cover it. And this is set post ROTK.
1. Default Chapter

Swarthy skinned, dark eyed and fiery tempered, we were what the men of the West called the Easterlings, though we were not the soldiers that came to the Dark Lord's call in the last war of the Ring. We were the slaves of the slaves of Sauron, because unlike the Orcs and Balrogs and dark creatures of those lands West of Mount Doom, our overlords had none other creatures or races to enslave but their own. It was a countryside torn apart by greed and lust and evil. Shackles that, with our pitiful numbers and battered shape, we could never break free of on our own. For weeks we awaited the return of the troops that governed us from the borders of the ruins that marked where the Dark Lord once resided. It became apparent that they were not coming back. So it was that the day we watched the land of Mordor fall was also the day that marked the start of our uprise. Our successful uprise... With hand and foot, with axe and broken chain, we slew our captors and fellow countrymen and claimed for ourselves the intoxicating elixir of freedom...  
  
Men and women whom had been pressed into life-long labor and prostitution wanted the heads of every man woman and child of the ruling class. Looting and pillaging and raping of the higher class briefly flitted across the countryside. And though the perpetrators were caught when found and put to the gallows, the rioting left a bitter taste in the mouths of the victorious rebels whom sought to unite the countryside rather than splint it farther into two. Chaos would have reigned in our lands immediately following the take down of the powers that were, had it not been for the great deeds and sacrifice of our heroes: men and women who had once been slaves, nomads that amassed from the countryside, farmers, servants, members even of the former ruling class, and the wanderers, without whom our cause would have been lost.  
  
Of the wanderers, there were three. The first, known to us simply as Khalim "The Arab", master translator and diplomat, was found wandering the countryside lost to be taken to the hierophant's court and made to tell pleasing stories and poems to amuse the highborn and ease them of their idleness and boredom. The second, Shya Haima, master of the sword, we found, whilst scouring the countryside for supporters, in the company of natives living in the sparse swamps that buffered our lands from those of the Dark Lord worshipped as a God. She we convinced to join in our cause, along with a host of her native brethren. The third, Kirina, the temptress and foreseer, had lived so long in the court of the hierophant as his intended consort, that all assumed that she had been born among us.  
  
Even with their help, the task of rulership fell heavy on the shoulders of the victorious. Afterall we were not aristocrats nor the sons of aristocrats and it became sorely clear that, without the free labor of a slave class, balancing the country's account books and keeping the people fed would be most difficult indeed. It was obvious that in this dry wasteland, the neglected and overlooked irrigation and aqueduct system was in need of serious repair, as was the system of land grants and privileges, so far as down to the sorts of crops that were planted. Our lands were due for a major overhaul, and we were blessed by the Sun that our two bravest warriors Mephistan and Undulo, both nomads by descent and natural born leaders, stood up to the challenge and proved strong and capable rulers. They became dual kings, and in the year following the Uprise, there was not famine, thanks to the speedy and wise dispersal of the stores of grain found in the palaces of the overthrown. This year however, there were no reserves and little rain. Famine seems inevitable and the people begin to doubt our chances for survival...  
  
Taita, Royal scribe and historian, winter solstice in the year of the Fox.  
  
**************************************************************************** ********* (This is Rated R with future sections in mind for every conceivable reason for rating R. Foul language, gory violence, nudity, illegal camel farms, you name it, we've got it. In fact, I'd go so far as to rate it NC-17 were it permissible. Notes: (A.) the introduction is written in the POV of Taita, the Royal Historian person, in case I hadn't already made that clear. The vast majority will consist of Narrative, though. (B.) Italics signify thoughts. For future reference. (C.) I know the Intro. Seems far fetched (and short) but stick with me and I promise I'll get to the relevant point. Eventually (D.) Feedback is something I've become addicted to. But seeing as how this is my first attempt at LOTR fanfic, -and- first attempt at posting anything at all on this site, ::grin:: be gentle?)  
  
(Shinigami) 


	2. Chapter 1

((Author's Notes: Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's work. At All. The other original characters, like mild mannered Khalim here, are MINE. And I'm fiercely territorial. (A.) Italics are used in this section to emphasize. (B.) Rangers? Corrupted? It's entirely possibly, don't you think? (C.) Having a bit of a hard time getting the uploaded version of the text to look like the way I have it saved. Forgive me if it looks a bit odd. (D.) It has been brought to my attention that my settings weren't allowing anonymous feedback. (This I was not aware of) So I've fixed the problem. Have at it, mates.))  
  
Shinigami **************************************************************************** *  
  
A company of four men and a lone andalusian could be seen traversing the wilderness south of Mirkwood. They came from the Sea of Rhun, going South/Southwest towards Mordor, where they skirted the Ash Mountains, and headed due West, crossed the River Anduin, and made camp upon the delta of the River Entwash. Eyes of elves and men had watched their procession with curiosity and wariness, though the caravan itself was unaware. And once the strangers clad wholly in black with silver and ivory pommelled daggers and swords slung low against their hips crossed into the territory of Rohan, a host of Rangers and Mirkwood elves that had gathered to silently track and follow the caravan immediately alerted Edoras of their presence.  
  
Once upon the dark silt deposited shores of the delta, the men pitched their meager black tents in a semicircle facing East, and built a low fire in the center of what was to be their camp for the night. The fire was a first, it was a luxury they could not afford on the long journey so close to Mordor, for though the Shadow had fallen, many evil creatures still lingered and would have been drawn to a fire's light. Sensing a greater safety on the western side of the river, they chanced the warmth of its glow, and three of the men went out into the neighboring woods to find game. One, Khalim, remained to guard the camp, and he took this opportunity to remove the saddle and bridle from the andalusian, who's thick white hide was in so stark a contrast to the black clothing of the Easterlings, and rub his flanks with a bit of dried riverstalks as the sun set.  
  
"Have we any idea what this is that we're eating?"  
  
"Well," answered Falsam, the youth to Khalsim's side, rotating the spit upon which was skewered an oddity with an alien quality to the Easterlings, "It surely doesn't appear to be poisonous." He laughed and added, "I'll take the first bite. If I don't keel over, you'll know it's safe!"  
  
"I think not," chimed in Samir, another of the companions who busied himself boiling what was left of their rations of rice, "Or have you forgotten what an appetite Falsam has, Khalim? Ha! Enough to feed atleast two Oliophants!" They all of them laughed at the red faced Falsam, Khalim adding "If not three or more". Even Falsam was forced to laugh then.  
  
Their cheer carried, unbeknownst to them, to the keen ears of the Rangers that hovered just beyond the firelight hiding behind the trees. Tonight would be the night that they planned to stop the caravan and discover the truth behind the mystery of their voyage. "Such laughter," one hissed to his neighbor, "Surely they laugh at some devious scheme they are conjuring". "Or worse," his neighbor replied, "perhaps they laugh at the memory of victims they've known before."  
  
Slowly, the Rangers closed in on the wooded flanks of the caravan, while in the meantime the men of the camp amused themselves attempting to identify the calls of the many colored birds that sang to each other in the night air. The last of the rice was finished. The last of the bread that had long since gone hard was pitched into the campfire in disgust, and yet they were a cheery lot as they listened to Khalim's fascinating stories of the beasts and men of his world. As the twilight gathered and the campfire ebbed low, the companions filed into their tents and made ready for the night. The stallion stirred uneasily, pawing at the ground with his fore hooves and Samir paused, with his hand to his ear, and whispered to the Arab, "What kind of bird do you think would make so shrill a call?"  
  
"I cannot say. I have never heard such a noise made by bird," he said, then nearly choked on his words as he barked out "Look! Behind you!"  
  
The Easterlings, exhausted and hungry, were no match for the cloaked and hooded Rangers that formed a human wall before them but did not succeed in surrounding them. Khalim and the others lined together against the shore of the delta like shadows, pressed together with their curved swords gleaming in the moonlight. For a tense moment, each party waited for the other to make the first move, but when Khalim heard the order given for bows and arrows, he knew any resistance they might make would be in vain. With barbed arrows trained upon them, the caravan watched as a man came forward from the ranks of the Rangers and raised his hand as if prepared to signal the archers to fire. "Strike down these assassins! One less threat to the free peoples of middle earth!"  
  
"Ho Whoa, whoa! We are no threats! We are no threats," he repeated himself as he slowly lowered his sword, gesturing for to the men behind to do the same, and whispering "Trust me". They complied if hesitatingly. "What threat can four men and a horse pose to any kingdom in just the fortnight we've been here?" Khalim asked of the sandy blonde haired man who lowered his arm and pushed back his hood.  
  
"You speak the common tongue?" the man replied, apparently taken aback by Khalim's fluent use of Westron, "Speak quickly at tell me from what lands you hail!"  
  
"We are men from the East of the Sea of Rhun-"  
  
"Easterlings! Men of Sauron just as I suspected! Bind their hands and Search their belongings," ordered the man, aware of how the men behind Khalim raised their swords and eyed the cloaked men that came forward, arrows cocked in their bows and ready to fire down upon them, "Look for anything suspicious. Maps, letters, insignias of the vanquished enemy..."  
  
"Wait! Yes, we are Easterlings, but not in the service of Evil!"  
  
"You are armed-"  
  
"Only fools would venture close to Mordor completely unarmed"  
  
"Only fools would venture close to Mordor armed or no. Fools and Spies, the latter in your case, I suspect," the fair headed man said, his face a mask of suspicions as his men waited for his order, "Or would you have us to believe that a pack of Easterling wolves would come all this way merely for the pleasure of a camping trip? Nay, we are not so lackwitted as that." He nodded and his men continued to search through the caravan's packs and chests.  
  
"Wait, if you would but listen... I am able to explain!"  
  
The men paused again and waited to see what their captain's command would be. Obviously frustrated, he snarled "Fine. Hand over your weapons and explain yourselves. But be quick, and be warned I have little patience for nonsense."  
  
Khalim nodded and turned to whisper to his wary companions in their own tongue. Though they grumbled and seemed to resist the idea, they grudgingly handed over their ornate weapons to the Rangers before them, who lowered their bows and stepped closer to seize them. Khalim turned to face the man that held their lives in his hands and began: "I am Khalim, the Arab. These men," he gestured to the men gathered behind him, "My companions and I have braved great peril to- "  
  
"Treasure!" Came a cry from one of the Rangers inspecting their belongings, interrupting Khalim. There swiftly formed a huddle over one of the chests they managed to up-end. In it they found many scroll paintings and silk robes, packets containing they knew not what, and all manners of trinkets and statuettes. "Such treasures," another man added, holding up a fur and jeweled diadem for their leader's inspection. He brought it to the fire for better light as the Rangers surrounding the Easterlings aimed their arrows once more at the hearts of the men that watched the scene before them with incredulous eyes.  
  
Khalim began to protest when his antagonist finally spoke. "What noble family did you rob of these before arriving here? Only a fortnight indeed-"  
  
"For men that allegedly spied us crossing Mordor, have you seen us trespassing any conveniently placed palaces on the way? Those are not stolen, they are gifts from our lands. It is as I have been trying to tell you. We are here as ambassadors to the Kings of the West!" "Khalim?" Falsam nervously whispered when he heard the testiness in Khalim's voice, touching his sleeve with his hand.  
  
"Ha! Ambassadors, indeed. More likely spies. Or come to beg the aid of the High King."  
  
"What do you make of this, Captain?" asked one of the Ranger's men, holding for his perusal a map that charted a course around Mordor that crossed the River Anduin just short of Ithilien and cut through Rohan, headed straight for Minas Tirith.  
  
"There's no point in bothering his Majesty over this. Since they are in Rohan land at the moment, we'll hail some of the horsemen and 'escort' them to the King of the Riddermark," he grinned and tossed the diadem back onto the pile of goods amassed from the Easterlings, "How fortunate that we happened to cross your path. You will be forthright taken to the court of the king of this land upon which you stand, as you intended. And your goods here will be accepted by men of the West." he laughed along with the other Rangers, ".Just as you intended. Bind their hands."  
  
"Khalim," murmured Samir, "The gifts! We should stop them-"  
  
"No," sighed Khalim "Let it go. We would be killed. It is not worth our lives." 


	3. Chapter 2

Chrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrristalmighty it's been a long time since I posted. I'm not sure what happened; it wasn't lack of ideas to work with I assure you. Somewhere along the way I was bombarded by a heavy tidal wave of laziness and since had not been able to make any kind of progress with this story. But I've broken free of the habit and am BACK! A couple of things I mean to work on. A. Working on the length of the chapers. Somehow these things seem much longer in Notepad... B. Getting a Beta reader. *Prostrates before the audience* and so for the all of two of you who were actually waiting for the continuation of this story, I now introduce my whipping-boy/muse: Thoth.   
  
Thoth: GOMEN!  
  
==S==  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Blindfolded and with hands bound, Khalim and his companions were made to walk through the plains and fields of Rohan for days and nights surrounded by Rangers trailing the horse-mounted Rohirrim. They stopped rarely and were allowed food and drink scarcer still until, on the eve of the third day, they were unceremoniously dumped by a roaring fire.   
  
When he found his face uncovered, Khalim took note of the fact that the Rangers were gone. He assumed they went to scout ahead. Turning, he took stock of his friends, who returned his weary smile. These men had been slaves. They were no strangers to the lash and to hunger. There was no deed their captors could do to them that had not already been done or threatened to these three. Despite the loss of their treasures, despite the emminent danger they now found their lives in, they trusted Khalim and followed his word without question and Khalim loved them for that.   
  
"How are you feeling?" He asked of Samir when he'd crawled close enough to his side. Samir licked his dry lips and answered "Thirsty," in a voice that cracked. The others, Falsam and Neirmen, nodded their agreement as Falsam suffered a sneezing fit on account of the scratchy wool that had been used to cover his face. Khalim bent his head and turned to face the men that stood a little ways away, feeding and rubbing down their horses. Shame filled him, for he kept forgetting he was the only one among them that could communicate with the western men and be understood.  
  
"Excuse me," He tentatively began, "I don't mean to cause a burden but might we have a bit of water to drink over here?" He couldn't have been prepared for the reaction this simple question would bring. The men as one turned and regarded him with faces covered in turns by shock, suspicion, and anger. One emboldened man with a shock of strawberry blonde hair and a beard to match stode forward and seized Khalim by his collar, dragging him away from the other Easterlings. They gave a started cry but were unable to prevent the Rohan man from bringing Khalim dangerously close to the camp's fire.   
  
"Where did you learn our language?!"  
  
"I'm an ambassador, damnit! I'm supposed to be able to talk to people!"  
  
The man was clearly unsatisfied with the answer to his question. Apparently, rather than speaking common, he'd spoken to the Rohirrim in their own tongue. He seemed almost as surprised as they.   
  
It was pure benevolence on the part of his captors that kept Khalim from falling under the sword that night. He realized now they were a wary people, superstitious some might say though Khalim himself was a superstitious man. He understood that, even if they could've in the beginning, they could not bring themselves to trust him now. The Rangers returned, and the agitated horsemen relayed to them what had happened. Khalim, for his part, remained silent waiting until he was approached before speaking. That approach was not long in coming. The sandy blonde headed man, the one that the arab could only assume was the leader, came forward and sat on his haunches before Khalim where he sat huddled close to the fire away from his friends. He seemed tired, an entirely different man from the one who'd nearly given the order to fire down on the small group of travelling Easterlings. He made eye contact with Khalim, and the arab held his gaze unflinchingly and without guilt.   
  
"The Rohirrim tell me you're quite full of surprises."  
  
"I try to be," Khalim replied honestly, "But I understand they are afraid."  
  
"I would'nt let them hear you say that if I were you. And I think you'd better tell me how it is that you came to learn to speak their language as if it were your own. They are very ready to slit your throat or leave you here bound as soon as look at you."  
  
Khalim sighed and glanced at the men who attempted to look busy by tending their horses. He knew damned well they were eavesdropping. It was there in the way they studiously avoided his gaze. "It is difficult to explain, sir-"  
  
"You had no trouble expressing yourself moments ago."  
  
Khalim lowered his head and chuckled to himself, "You know, you remind me of someone..."  
  
"Oh? And who is that?"  
  
"Haima. A friend from since the war of the one ring," Khalim smiled to see the slight twitch that gave away the ranger's displeasure, "You do not like me saying you are similar to an Easterling, eh? Don't worry, she wouldn't like being compared to you either."  
  
At last Khalim was awarded with a laugh from the man sitting across from him. "A 'she' you say? This can't be good. Pray tell me how you find me so similar to a yellow woman."  
  
"You both talk in the same way. Biting with a sharp tongue. I know now after the rebellion that it's just a way to command attention and respect without-"  
  
"Rebellion? What rebellion?"  
  
Khalim sucked his cheek into his teeth and regarded the man with a mischevious glint in his black eyes. He'd finally arrested the man's interest. "I thought you wanted me to tell you how I know their language," he said with a nod in the general direction of the Rohirrim.  
  
"And so I do. Don't think that I don't know that you were leading our little talk in that direction. So get on with it."  
  
Khalim laughed for the first time since being captured. "Very well, then I will tell you. But first I would know your name." It was a bold step, he'd gotten the Ranger to open up to him thus far but at this moment he could very easily clam up and shut him out again. It was a gamble, but one Khalim had to make. If the Ranger gave him his name Khalim would know then that he had him right where he wanted him. He was a gifted storyteller, accomplished and masterful. It was a second nature to him, one that was honed out of the need to survive when the hierophant "requested" his performance at his court.   
  
The Ranger watched him for a moment, studying him as if looking for the slightest hint of trickery in the arab's demeanor. At length he sighed, ran his fingers through his rackish sandy-blonde hair and answered. "Belen. My name's Belen. And if you say that's a feminine name, I swear I'll run you through-"  
  
"That won't be necesarry," Khalim said, holding up his bound hands in a gesture of appeasement, "Now then Belen, if I may call you that, I will tell you all that you wish to know. But first, may I ask that my companions are given water to drink?"   
  
Belen glanced at the mound that formed the huddled together bodies of Khalim's friends. He glanced back at the arab, almost guiltily, and gestured for one of his men, giving the order to give the captives drink. Once Khalim was certain that the others had been given their fill and were making ready to sleep, he began his tale to Belen. It was slow going at first, the Ranger was reluctant to suspend his disbelief about the nature of the Easterlings. Khalim was relentless however and told his tale with such ferver and emotion, Belen was made in awe against his better judgement. It continued on throughout the night, as the Rangers and the Rohirrim split shifts for night watches and made ready for bed, and well into the morning. When the horizon brightened and the clouds became fringed in reds and pinks with the first rays of the sun, Belen noticed his men making breakfast and packing up camp.   
  
Khalim was in the middle of explaining the better details of rice paddies and their usefulness in ambush warfare when the Ranger stiffly rose to his feet, stretching and yawning. "Perhaps we had better continue this story later. Might I be allowed to rejoin my friends? I think they worry about me- by the RED DAWN!!"  
  
Belen had grasped Khalim's writes and slashed at them with the dagger he drew from his belt. The arab had attempted to wrench his hands away but as he did so he found that his binds had been cut, deliberately. 


End file.
